


i can't help myself

by typefortydeductions



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, Domestic, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 14:37:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1902753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/typefortydeductions/pseuds/typefortydeductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five habits that made their way into the future, and one that changed everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i can't help myself

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude, as ever, to Nyla.

**One**

Before, when Bucky had been out dancing, or working late at the docks, Steve had done the same. Curled up on his narrow bed, face pressed to Bucky’s shirt, because he’d slept easier if he could at least pretend like Bucky was there (and he always put it down to childhood memories, to nights hiding from the world under thin blankets, never let himself think about what else it could be, never let himself _imagine_ ). And now he sits on the couch, tries to pretend he’s paying attention to the TV, and not watching the seconds tick past. Bucky is back late from Natasha’s and his t-shirt is twisted in Steve’s hands. He pulls the fabric tight, curls his thumbs around the hem, and bargains with himself, like if Bucky is OK he’ll be able to stop holding on too tight, holding on to whatever he can get.

(Weeks later, he is delayed at the gym, and comes back to find Bucky wedged onto the couch, Steve’s hoodie clutched in his arms, feet hanging over the edge. He jerks awake, reaches for the knife that isn’t there. As he does so the hoodie falls from his arms, and Bucky’s head snaps up to meet Steve’s gaze. His eyes are wide, an apology already on his lips, and Steve – Steve can only smile softly, and say

“Hey, Buck. I’m home.”)

**Two**

Bucky is dancing in the kitchen. Ordinarily his pose oscillates between hunched-over shoulders and motionless military aggression, but, tonight, he is dancing. His legs move almost unconsciously, all feral animal grace that is nothing like the loose-limbed preening Steve remembers from countless dancehalls. Except that’s not quite true. That’s not how it was during the war. If he closes his eyes Steve can see the way his body moved with barely-concealed tension, muscles taut, smile too wide. The way his shoulders curled as if compensating for the weight of a gun. And Steve watches as Bucky – Bucky _now_ – spins across the floorboards, the knife a blur between his hands as he chops vegetables. And there was a time when Bucky’s steps were unsure, made clumsy by gangly teenage limbs, and there will be a time when Bucky reaches out his hand to Steve, pulls him in against his chest as they sway together, but Steve watches as Bucky grins bright, and doesn’t spare a thought for any time but now.

**Three**

Bucky still bites his lip to stop the screams escaping.

(And Steve still hears him anyway, sits up at the sound of Bucky’s stumbling steps. Still holds out his hand as Bucky stands, shaking, by the bed, an open invitation. Lets Bucky curl into his side. Still presses himself into Bucky when all he can see is falling, falling, _falling_ , hand clutching his arm, chasing the feeling off slipping fingers away. And the ridges under his hand are metal, but Bucky is stroking his hair, and Steve is stroking Bucky’s jaw until it relaxes, and they are still here, still together. Still alive.)

**Four**

Steve had always loved baseball, had hovered anxiously by their battered wireless every Dodgers game and saved up the cents to attend every one he could. Bucky preferred to lie sprawled over the couch, half-listening, but mostly watching Steve’s reactions. His curled fists, his wide-open eyes, the way he stopped himself halfway through a shout so that he wouldn’t miss any of the action. And sometimes, when it got really tense, he would go right up on his tiptoes, leaning as far forward as he could, like he could influence the result if he could only get close enough. It was a precarious position and, more than once, it had resulted in him toppling forward at the point of resolution, his arms raised in triumph, too carried away to retain any sense of balance. Bucky had panicked the first couple of times, rushed forwards to help him up, but after a while he stayed where he was, shaking his head and roaring with laughter as Steve brushed himself off and hastened back to the radio.

The games are all televised now, of course, and they’re both sitting on the couch. Buck is lying back indolently, offering occasional comments and exhortations, but Steve is perched right on the edge, hands cupping his jaw as he wills the players on from the other side of the screen. Bucky watches as he slides further and further forward, until his balancing act is practically circus-worthy, and says nothing. His mouth twitches in anticipation as a home run is scored, and then Steve is falling, super-soldier reflexes failing him utterly as his arms flail, still yelling victoriously. And Bucky is laughing, hoarse and guttural, one hand clutching his stomach as unfamiliar muscles kick in, a grin spreading over Steve’s own face as he looks up at him. Bucky sobers. He tips his head to one side, considering, and Steve gazes patiently back.

“You used to do that. Before.” He sounds almost accusing, like he can’t quite believe Steve is still so ridiculous. The smirk returns, and his eyes light up with something like triumph. “I thought it was…funny – then, too.” He pauses “Guess you’ve always been kind of an idiot, huh?” and Steve is smiling up at him like he’s the whole goddamn world, and Bucky nods in confirmation, because Steve may be kind of hopeless, but that’s why he’s got Bucky.

**Five**

Steve had always made coffee for Bucky when he came home from the docks, bone-tired and sweat-drenched. It was a nightly routine, something that didn’t change until Bucky left for the war. And so when Bucky arrives home after therapy, dragging his feet, Steve turns to the coffee machine on automatic pilot. He’s already reaching for a cup when it occurs to him that this is a decision he can encourage Bucky to make.

“Hey, uh, Buck?” Bucky’s head jerks up, skittish post-therapy reflexes on edge. “You want any coffee?” Bucky looks almost puzzled, but, slowly, he shakes his head. “OK then. You want anything else? Tea, juice – water?”

“Tea.”

Steve reaches for the tea leaves that Bruce dropped off. He doesn’t care that Bucky doesn’t want coffee, only that he wants _something._ He loves every inch of every Bucky. And that includes the parts this Bucky is still discovering, still reaching for. The Bucky that wants to drink herbal tea ensconced in giant hoodies, watching Steve cook like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

**+1**

Steve had always got home before Bucky had. It left him time to sketch, even outside art class and the odd jobs he could find, as much time as he could squeeze in, sat on the fire escape in the fading light, tracing the shadows and figures he could see on the street below. Most of it was idle doodling, just practice really, but sometimes something good came out of it – Mrs Morrison waving at him, the wind blowing in her hair, Steve’s pencil tracing the frozen tendrils of it. The kids from the apartment below fencing with sticks, faces covered in dirt and brows furrowed in mock-fierceness. He always left those ones on the table in the lounge, page open as he busied himself in the kitchen. Stopped himself from moving when Bucky came home, just peered through the open archway, just out of sight, so that he can see Bucky walk over and pick it up, always careful not to crease the paper. (He doesn’t see the way Bucky ducks his head to hide his laugh, the way his eyes flicker up to where Steve’s shadow falls across the floor.)

And Bucky, without fail, smiles big, artless and free, walks into the kitchen to help Steve plate up. They exchange the stories of their days, moving around each other with the ease of years spent together, and then, just as they’re finishing up eating, Bucky will lay down his cutlery, knock his feet against Steve’s, and say

“Saw your drawing when I came in, buddy. This one’s real nice, real beautiful. You got her hair exactly right.” And Steve will blush, his heart racing, fork clutched tight in his hand, and he will mumble his thanks, never quite sure what to say.

(On bad days, days when there is not enough food on the table, and Bucky’s feet are aching, days when there are bruises high on the arches of Steve’s cheekbones, blood smeared across Bucky’s mouth, he will slouch into their rickety chair, scoop up Steve’s sketchbook and flick through, a smile slowly stretching across his face, the dried blood cracking in the creases of his face. And Steve will sit and watch him, won’t say a word ‘til he puts down the book and goes to clean himself up. Won’t say anything even then, just traces the lines, tries to see what Bucky sees in them.)

During the war Steve draws less and less, but, on occasion, Bucky finds a sheet of paper tucked into his pack.

He remembers to smile when he does.

 

After Steve wakes up from the ice, after he remembers and realises that drawing makes him feel normal and settled, he still leaves his favourite ones in the middle of the table in the lounge. It hurts sometimes, to see them lying their unmoved, but at night, when he has given up tossing and turning on his too-soft bed and goes to get himself a glass of water, it reminds him that this thing is one thing he’s still proud of. His throat hoarse from screaming, but he’s got this one thing, and that’s good, and he can still be _good_ , and even if it’s not all okay, it can still be _okay._ He’s not lying when he tells Sam he doesn’t know what makes him happy. This isn’t happiness exactly, but it’s something.

 

When Bucky’s back, and they’re staying at the tower, and everything is raw and heady and still just _everything_ , because Bucky is back, and getting better, and Bucky is _back –_ Steve still does it. Not for Bucky, not really, but just because he does it. He doesn’t leave his sketchbook open, not anymore (he tries to tell himself that he doesn’t want to pressure Bucky, that he doesn’t want Bucky to feel like the pencil lines should mean anything to him, but there is a voice that says it’s more than that, that he wouldn’t be able to bear Bucky’s indifference – ), but he doesn’t try to hide it either. He never sees Bucky looking at it. (Bucky does, though. When Steve is gone, Bucky sits on the couch and holds it in his hands, turning the pages slowly, taking every detail, every line. All of it. But he never says anything to Steve. Doesn’t know if he’s allowed to, if he’s supposed to. What Steve expects. He always leaves the sketchbook exactly where he finds it.)

One night, when Steve is away on a mission, Bucky wakes up screaming. There is blood on his teeth, and he can feel the echo of it in his throat, and his lungs are burning, burning, and he can’t _breathe –_

He crawls out of his bed, walks into the lounge, restless, and he’s walking just to do _something_ but he sees Steve’s sketchbook, and he grabs it, curls up half-under the table and squints at the outline of the Brooklyn skyline, just visible in the half-light. Traces his thumb along the bridge of Natasha’s nose, her eyes glinting with mischief, Sam’s raised eyebrow, the view from Steve’s bedroom window. He breathes.

 

Steve doesn’t say anything the next day about the missing sketchbook, the obvious outline of it against Bucky’s chest. It’s only when he’s turning to go that Bucky takes it out, flips to the sketch of Natasha and Sam.

“This drawing, Stevie. It’s real beautiful. I know you did it and all, I know –“ He pauses, frustrated, because sometimes the words still just won’t _come._ “It reminds me of you.”

And Steve smiles, ducking his head as his cheeks bloom pink, his voice cracking slightly as he thanks Bucky.

And Steve is beautiful, just like his drawings.

 

Steve starts leaving his sketchbook open again, but it’s still months before he leaves out a drawing of Bucky. Bucky’s only out at the gym, due back any moment, and Steve’s hands shake slightly as he puts it down. It’s a sketch of him from the other night, lounging on the couch, his hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, the lines of his neck and shoulders getting lost in the huge jumper he’d stolen from Steve. His collarbone is just visible where the neckline has slipped, and his legs are angular, the steep arch of his feet softened by his layers of socks. It’s not Steve’s most recent drawing – not even his most recent one of Bucky – but there’s something about it. He can’t read his own work in the way that Bucky does, can’t quite put his finger on it. But maybe Bucky will understand.

 

(And _God,_ he’s terrified. He’s shown Bucky everything else of him, given him everything else, but the way he sees Bucky, the way that is most obvious in his art, and it feels like too much, like Bucky will be able to see that it’s always been too much.)

He lingers in his bedroom doorway, where he has a clear view of the table, half-cast in shadow. He doesn’t have any illusions about Bucky being able to see him, not any more – not after the Winter Soldier – but he needs the semblance for himself.

When Bucky arrives home he almost walks past the table, headed straight for the shower, drenched in sweat from his work out. But the open page catches his eye and he stops. Looks. He drops to his knees, fingers reaching out to touch the page. He holds it in both hands, hunched over, and Steve can’t see his face anymore, can only guess, can only hope –

He waits.

Bucky does not move.

He does not move, and his shoulders do not lift with every breath, and Steve dashes to his side, biting his lip to keep from speaking, trembling until Bucky lifts his face. His eyes are closed, unshed tears dotting his lashes, and Steve can feel his heart beating in his ears, his throat closing up with panic, and Bucky opens his eyes and smiles, gently.

“Steve, you draw me so beautiful, it’s not.” He shakes his head, bites his lip, looks so utterly _lost_ that it’s all Steve can do to stop himself pulling him in. “It’s not right. You draw me like I’m you, like I’ve got goodness shining out of every goddamn pore, and I’m not, I’m not….” And Steve is leaning forward, his breath coming fast as he stumbles out the words, the words that can’t come fast enough.

“You _are,_ Buck, you are. You’re better than I am. Always have been.”

Bucky smiles again, leans forward so that they are mere inches apart.

“And you’ve always been the most stubborn little punk in the whole of the United States of America, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking you’re beautiful.”

Steve thinks his heart may explode. His hands are sweaty where they’re clenched on his knees, and Bucky is looking at him with wide, shining eyes, and all he can think is _don’t fuck this up._

“Bucky.” He stops, licks his lips, and this – _Bucky –_ is too important for this hesitation. “Bucky, you might be the biggest pain-in-the-ass jerk I ever met, but you’re the most beautiful person I ever met, too.”

He watches Bucky swallow, his throat bobbing, and waits.

Bucky’s brow crease.

Steve takes a deep breath.

“Buck, you OK?”

His face freezes for a moment, and then he is doubled over laughing, his head brushing Steve’s knees, hair tickling the back of Steve’s hands.

“I’m fine, Stevie. I’m just in love with an idiot.”

“Hey! Asshole, I’m not an idiot, I just want you to know that—“ Steve stops, works through what Bucky just said. “Wait. Did you just…?”

Bucky is still laughing, little huffing gasps of air into the carpet, but he raises his head, grins wide and open at Steve’s wide-open mouth and startled eyes.

“See you _are_ an idiot.” There’s a trace of nervousness in his voice, though, and Steve grabs his shoulders , pulling them so that they are chest to chest. His eyes are soft and he tips his forehead to Bucky’s.

“I love you too, Buck.”


End file.
